There is an aspect of accessibility that is akin to dust: it is omnipresent, but you only see it when you bend down and look closely. It is not the grand headline about ramps or the image of a wheelchair next to the lift. It is that invisible, everyday barrier that does not appear in manuals but infiltrates every gesture. For instance: the mailbox. Or, more accurately, that object which exists but is not for me.
The concept is simple: arrive home, open the mailbox, and retrieve your letters. However, if you cannot reach it with your hand, if you struggle to turn the key, if the names are written in lowercase and faint contrast, or if the mailboxes are squeezed into a tight corner of the lobby, checking the mail becomes an absurd game: an escape room without a prize.
And it is not just the mailbox. It is the intercoms positioned at a height of one metre eighty, with buttons that offer no feedback. It is that intercom which a deaf person simply cannot hear. It’s intercoms lacking text, vibration, or alternatives. Doorbells without light. Visual signals without sound. Lifts that do not notify you when they have arrived. Doors that open automatically, yes… but not if you need to press a poorly placed button that no one thought you might need.
Small Gestures, Big Barriers
Accessibility is also, above all, a chain of thoughtfully considered small gestures. Yet, when one of these gestures fails, the entire process breaks down.
For example, imagine a wheelchair user arrives at a building equipped with an excellent ramp. Bravo! But then they reach the lobby… and the intercom sits too high. What do they do? Do they throw a neighbour’s cane to see if it helps? Or perhaps a person with low vision encounters names in the mailbox written in cursive font and light grey on medium grey. Do they try guessing who lives there? Do they play roulette by opening all of them until they find the right one?
The worst part is that, all too often, it is not even considered a problem. Because it is not broken; there is no “explicit” barrier. Yet, it is broken for those who cannot use it. Simple as that.
The Trap of the “Normal”
Such obstacles often come with a fundamentally misconstrued idea of what is normal. We design with the average, the standard, the typical user in mind. And that standard, as we know, excludes a vast number of people.
The mailbox, the intercom, the microwave in the common room, the “emergency exit” sign in font size A4, the light switch in the communal bathroom positioned at the height of a giraffe… All of this seems “normal” until someone requires something different. And then you discover that normality is not neutral: it is exclusionary.
What If We Looked at It Differently?
What would happen if we designed spaces considering that all bodies, all perceptions of the world, have the right to be comfortable? What if the mailbox were at a reasonable height for everyone, with identification in large text and braille, and an accessible lock?
What if the intercom included vibration, light, and sound? What if the buttons were large and distinguishable by touch? What if sound had a visual alternative? What if the space for manoeuvring were the rule rather than the exception?
Spoiler alert: more people would feel included. Fewer would rely on external help for simple tasks such as receiving a letter or opening a door. Buildings would not merely be habitable, but livable for all.
These are not details: they are autonomy.
When we discuss accessibility, we often encounter that dreaded phrase: “They are just details.” As if the important aspects lie elsewhere. As if being unable to access your mailbox has no consequences.
But it does. Each of these “details” impacts personal autonomy, the right to navigate without seeking permission, without needing to provide explanations, without depending on others. And that is not a luxury: it is dignity.
Starting Small (Which Is Not Insignificant)
Not everything can be resolved with laws or million-pound budgets. Sometimes, it simply requires observing with different eyes. Asking who cannot use what you use without a second thought. Feeling a bit uncomfortable. Asking. Listening.
Checking whether all residents in your building can open their mailbox. If the intercom has alternatives. If the signs are comprehensible for everyone. If access does not merely begin and end with the ramp.
Because accessibility is not something to be added; it is something to be integrated. It is nurtured, learned, and built from the most fundamental level: the right to perform daily tasks without feeling as though you are asking for a favour.
